Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

President Bush Needs More Tokens To Win War In Iraq

President Bush Relieved Others See His Hallucination Too

(Jivester News, Lmtd.) An excited and enthusiastic President Bush appealed to Americans to give him more of the tokens he needs to win the war in Iraq. "I'm close, I'm really, really close," said the President while he wolfed down a piece of Chuck E. Cheese's pizza, then made a beeline for the restroom.

Reappearing minutes later, the President continued his appeal:

"I was stuck on level two forever--well, it seemed like forever. They tried to kick me out, saying they were closing down, but my boys, they straightened it out. They were like 'Hey, we got to close up' and I was like, 'Bring 'em on' and my boys, well, they don't cut and run, understand?" He continued, "Listen, I'd love to stand here and talk with you all day--not!--but I got me a couple of itchy trigger fingers. You tell America--the good America, not that other America--you tell them to get me some tokens, and pronto. Pronto-pronto."

With time for one question, a reporter asked Bush if "Given that you've had over three years to figure this game out, and that you're still stuck at level two, and you have some cheese on your chin--there, no, not there, there--why should America keep giving you tokens? You keep blowing things up and killing, but you always run back to the Green Zone and try to hoard your points. And every time you blow your wad and lose without getting past Level Two. And then it's 'more tokens, more tokens.'"

The President furrowed his brow and said, "Just give me the damn tokens. I have asked Congress for more tokens, and they have consistently found the will to get me the tokens that I need to win this thing. I have also asked the American public to just trust me on this. I don't have to talk to the American public about this, you know. I do this as a courtesy. 'Cuz I'm a nice guy."

Then the President turned and walked, nay strutted like a Jay Cock back to the video game, with only a trail of toilet paper stuck to his right shoe betraying the honor and dignity of his office, and his rightful place in history. In all fairness, the paper shield from the toilet was stuck on his pants, too. And he smelled funny. And his eyes were all googly.

Scott McClellan, who was visiting Chuck E. Cheese's with a gay hooker, told the busboy "Anyone who opposes giving the President more tokens is a doody-head who hates Jesus." The busboy appeared to understand very little english, but did smile at McClellan, so that counts for something.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Jolly Good New Noises

I've been recording all manner of silliness lately, and using Our Mediato get it on the 'Net(s).

Today, when I was at the site, I ran across an mp3 file of a radio broadcast from October 28th, 1940, in which Orson Welles and H.G. Welles, having met for the first time the day before, spoke about a world in trouble, while also mentioning a new movie the young Mr. Welles was readying for broadcast: Citizen Kane.

Winning the Hearts and Minds

Those of us who have opposed the military action in Iraq are labeled as traitors, aiders and abetters to the terrorists. When we questioned and decided against supporting a war based on lies and barely veiled profit-mongering we were mocked, derided, dismissed. We are ignored, castigated, scolded, lectured to by those in power, by a media made more strident, more "bottom-line," more blurred in its role as the eyes and ears of the public. Faceless soldiers lie in fresh graves, limbless veterans ache in the nightmares of their lives, and still we turn the cameras to the callow ones who trumpet war, trumpet violence, trumpet the Global Empire of Borderless Profits.

Every day we trod along as poor people are sent off to kill or be killed in an endless and bitter cycle: good people do not always win, reason does not hold the field, and Compassion is nailed to the cross for the crime of seeing suffering and working to end it. Fuck every motherfucking asshole who supported this war blindly, without reflection, without giving their entire being to investigating its validity before vouchsafing its conception. We, the citizens and politicians of the United States are not moral. We are not blessed. We are not the angels of freedom. We are killers on the road and we are paving the world with flesh and blood.

One of these days before I die, I hope to see a shift in the attitudes of so many of my black brothers and sisters in this great country we share, from perpetual victimhood, to pride in their achievements on the road from slave to American citizen.

Remember Ronald Reagan’s story about the kid who had to shovel a huge pile of manure? He went about it with such joy he was asked why and said, “With all that manure, there’s got to be a pony in there somewhere.”

The pony hidden in slavery is the fact that it was the ticket to America for black people. I have long urged blacks to consider their presence here as the work of God, who wanted to bring them to this raw, new country and used slavery to achieve it. A harsh life, to be sure, but many immigrants suffered hardships and indignations as indentured servants. Their descendants rose above it. You don’t hear them bemoaning their forebears’ life the way some blacks can’t rise above the fact theirs were slaves.

I repeat: The pony hidden in slavery is the fact that it was the ticket to America for black people.

Nevermind that she references the great empty-suit pitchman Ronald Reagan, a man who sold Borax as blithely as he did Chesterfields (now, granted, no one knew back then that all that black sputum everyone was hacking up could have anything to do with putting fire to tobacco rolled inside of paper tubes and then drawing the smoke into one's lungs--that's the beauty of the free-market: you will eventually find out the cause of your death, but on the terms of the manufacturer, not on the terms of those silly consumers). Nevermind that Ms. Fergusen unwittingly alludes to the core raison d'etre of the Reagan Administration (shoveling huge piles of manure). It's that she felt brave enough--yes, brave enough--to trod her philosophical wares out upon the Great Information Highway, to make her mark and to make the world a better place. She is The Reagan Gift Personified, the Delphic Oracle of the New Millenial Theocracy, the warbling canary in the cave of the Fundamentalist State. She is the crazy aunt who used to sit with us at the Thanksgiving Table, who smiled and brought the ambrosia. This bird has sprouted wings, and the feathery breezes of her New America will carry away all remnants of the sins of coherent thought. Amen.

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Naturally, I wrote some lyrics:

HEY, WHY NOT, DUDE?

Thank you god for slaveryThank you oh, so muchThank you for your loving handsAnd for your loving touch

Ain’t no reason for the blacksTo agitate and be ragin’Thanks be to the lordHe was their travel agent

Thanks be to the sky godOr there would never beA nation full of black folksThank you for slavery

Thanks be to Lord YahwehFor shipping us the blacksHe saw they needed travelAnd he liked the way they stacked

(chorus)The Jews walked out of EgyptInto the promised landWhen they got their ticket punchedIt was the good lord’s handHe liked the way they said goodbyeTo involuntary servitudeHe turned his mind to AfricaAnd thought, hey, why not dude?

When he saw them on the farmHe chuckled with a grinFor god so loved the black manHe created the cotton gin

He loved to hear the crackin’Of the whips and then the screamsWhen you have a master planGot to be on the Master’s team

Why these people complained so muchYou’d think that they weren’t braveThe depths of all their pettinessPut them all in shallow graves

Monday, March 13, 2006

Mantra to Defeat the Scoundrels

It is past time for elected Democrats to begin laying out the case that the leader of the Republican party, the man to whom the congress has blindly followed at every turn for the past five years, is dishonorable. They must begin to create a low hum that reverberates throughout the body politic that says "the Republican party is unethical, untrustworthy, inept and dishonorable." Make people hear it in their heads before they go to sleep each night.

Taking Digby at Digby's word, I recorded the following mp3 file in my bathtub:

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

War On Women

Republican Senator Bill Napoli of South Dakota said the following regarding under what circumstances it would be okay for a woman to have a say in what she does with her own body:

"A real-life description to me would be a rape victim, brutally raped, savaged. The girl was a virgin. She was religious. She planned on saving her virginity until she was married. She was brutalized and raped, sodomized as bad as you can possibly make it, and is impregnated. I mean, that girl could be so messed up, physically and psychologically, that carrying that child could very well threaten her life."

Made in the USA

Commenting on illegal immigration, Schaefer said 50 million abortions have been performed in this country, causing a shortage of cheap American labor. “We could have used those people,” she said.

Derangement is as derangement does. I wrote a song. Double-duh.

MADE IN THE USA

I was sitting in the restaurantGonna order whatever I wantBut the waitress had to bus her ownShe cleared the tables, she was all aloneAnd I had to wait a long, long timeA really long time

I was working in the factoryMaking Statues of LibertyThere was no one to attach the headIt made me see a river of redAnd I had to wait a long, long timeA really long time

(chorus)Give us your tired, give us your poorYou know you have to, you little whoresYou're gonna have to spit your babies outGive them a push and don't you poutWithout your market-value kidsGod-fearing companies will go on the skidsTime is moneyAnd there's money to be madeMade in the USA

I went down to the grocery storeTo get some bacon and some malt likk-orBut the shelves were all in disarrayNo minimum wagers came to work that day

Where have all the people gone?They used to work all day just singing songsMommy made them all for the LordAnd sold their souls to the company storeAnd I had to wait a long, long timeA really long time

(chorus)Give us your tired, give us your poorYou know you have to, you little whoresYou're gonna have to spit your babies outGive them a push and don't you poutWithout your market-value kidsGod-fearing companies will go on the skidsTime is moneyAnd there's money to be madeMade in the USA

Monday, March 06, 2006

Terry Gilliam Interview

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Imagine, if you will, that in our nation's capital, across from the Capitol Building and the monuments, there was situated a crazy, wild and vibrant building dedicated to Art, not Art as some collection of "things" in a museum, but as something that shouts and brays and whispers and sighs and points and festoons the whole world with potentialities beyond mere numbers and laws. Now put Terry Gilliam in charge of it.

"Television and the media are everywhere and they are taking over so powerfully. They don't shut up for a second. So you are unable to think. It is very difficult to think independently when you are surrounded by all that noise. What I most aspire to is to be alone. Not lonely, but alone. To stop all this noise. That is what I do when I go to Umbria. There is no television there, no telephone.

"The situation is especially serious with television. The money is dispersed among hundreds of stations so that no money is left for good things. In our time there was far greater depth. Not everything is artificial and as cheap as possible. Everyone gossips on television; it's all so trivial and it's impossible to hear anything."

The above quotes are Terry at his Terryiest. Artists do funny things, stupid things, recondite things, amazing flourishes, didactic hammerings, soaring flights of fancy and wearying inspections of decay, loss, grief: it points us to places we didn't know were there, or to ways of thinking we didn't know were possible. Artists do not fit snugly in the Box, the Big Box wherein all that can be imagined is proscribed, filed and dismissed. Not Art. Not yet.

That being said, Terry Gilliam was interviewed by Assaf Gavron, and though Mr. Gilliam has not been named "King of the Wood" he remains lively, interesting, distracted, blunt. You may not save the world, Terry, but you have made it less mundane. Would that you were in that enormous Art House, making noise, drawing monsters in the night. DC could use you right about now.

Thursday Afternoon Rescued Dog Blogging

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

The Bad Magician and a Sinecure of Poison

The Bad Magician has already not existed. He has already forgotten the future. The circle is complete but abstract. The Bad Magician awakens in the melting ice. The water runs along his fingers in streams of kinetic lines. His head elevated, his back arches, his cloak sweeps its blackness skyward. Rising, rising, rising. Time to go see the great Sinecure of Poison.

“I’m coming for you, Karl,” whispers the Bad Magician in the manner of the Crows. “And I carry your dead mother as my cross.”

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When the Dark underground went labyrinthine, Karl grabbed his chest, broke his ribs, gripped hard his blood muscle and shut his eyes, the colors red in blackness. He saw the Game, made white his knuckles and drew vestiges of skin on his humanity. His mother lay dead at his feet, his father a lie, his life a deceit. He strutted his shame into a Sinecure of Poison. A man assaulted, with lies and precious loss, so to conjure a countenance to face an horrid world, he breaks his bonds of humanity, and feeds on the liver of the fire-bringer. Karl is dead, long live Karl. It is 1981. Mother rides a cross in the sky. She will not return except by Olde Magick. Shadows are forever hiding.

The Bad Magician finds the midnight weeds of Danish murder, thrice blasted, thrice infected, and pours the dream cocktail in the ephemera, the white clouds, the tidal blood of a defeated human. Rove paces, he races, he traces but he cannot evade his Mother, His Father, the entanglements that made him stone, that creaked his bones, that broke his palace. The Bad Magician swings wide the gate and bids Karl enter.

It is decrepit, hollow, burnt. The edges of a man define the borders of horror. His best response, the gutting of the world, falls from his hand like a cheaply made knife. Blood of his mother. Blood of his life. What sorrows are thence exhaled, dear Richard Three? What enemy shall you sue to, for release from fate is a point of sticking.

The Bad Magician fashions a kite out of Karl Rove’s mother. She laughs and calls to Karl, the Flying Cross with Mother self-crucified. “No fair!” yells Karl. But Karl defeated fairness long ago, and none can save him now. His mother soars. Karl breaks down. The world is ravaged from the small mayhem of lives corrupted. Karl cries out, a Sinecure of Poison’s last invocation of a distillated malice. Poor Karl. Poor World.

The Bad Magician strolls to the gates, walks out, closes them. Karl alone in his broken garden. The Bad Magician walks to a burning forest, takes a leap across a great divide and navigates the last impediments of time and space. The Game is always on.

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Author’s note: From Wikipedia “At Christmas of 1969, Rove's father walked out of the marriage; his parents then divorced. After the divorce, Rove learned from his aunt and uncle that the man who had raised him was not his biological father; both he and an older brother were the children of another man. Rove has expressed great love and admiration for his adoptive father and for "how selfless" his love had been. In 1981, Rove's mother committed suicide in Reno, Nevada, when Rove was 30 years old. When Rove was in his 40s, he finally met his biological father.”

It is this author’s contention that Karl Rove is a hollow and emotionally violated man, a wraith, a tragic victim. He has turned his own woeful life story into a vengeful and macabre attack on decency and humanity and all those things which fair and compassionate people hold dear. He is what people used to refer to as a "cursed human" who in return has cursed the world.

Song For Jean Schmidt

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General JC Christian has found French infiltrators jimmying (jaucqeesing?) Rep. Jean Schmidt's "Smears Across America" campaign...seems some Stalinist group called Cincinnati.com ran a poll, and a lot of respondents "no-likey bitch corpse bride."

Heck, the love Frau Buckeye Breath shares with the world has inspired me to write some lyrics:

She Makes Me Scream

I want to eat her with a serving of crowI want the whole wide world to knowI want a second helping of JeanI want to eat her like a lima beanJeanShe makes me scream

I want to love her by the side of the roadI want to fill her with a loving loadI want to do her in the rays of the sunSecond thought: I think I'll cut and runJeanShe makes me scream

(chorus)Like Zena, like Joan of ArcLike Medusa just before darkLike the banshee that howls in the mistJean wears her knickers in a nasty twistMan, she is pissed

I want to take her to a movie showStudy the exits, and then I'll goLeave her with popcorn and ju ju fruitTell her I have to go drain my fluteJeanShe makes me scream

I'll go see her in WashingtonAnother suitor in her legions of menI'll wave to her and shout from the crowdAnd then I'll dump her for Maureen DowdJeanShe makes me scream

(chorus)Like Zena, like Joan of ArcLike Medusa just before darkLike the banshee that howls in the mistJean wears her knickers in a nasty twistMan, she is pissed

It's Quite Simple, Really...

A pretty woman speaks with the children, some of whom play with toys on the floor.

Alright, alright, settle down, settle down. Now, do you know why all of you have are here today?

“Snacks?”

No, not snacks. Anyone?

“Mom is at the store?”

She might be—Donald, sit down. No, we are here to talk about what the word “treason” means. Does anyone here know what “treason” means?

“Banana?”

No, George, but good try. Anyone else?

“Treason is the boy hit me.”

Good, Dick, very good, that’s kind of like treason. Treason is when you betray—you hurt—your country by doing something very bad. Sometimes treason is done by someone whose job is to help the country, not hurt it, and that’s some of the worst treason of all.

“No it isn’t.”

Yes, Karl.

(looks at floor)

Go ahead, Karl, explain your answer.

“I saw a girl at the water fountain and she spit.”

Karl, I said that treason is when you hurt your country by doing something very bad—betraying your country—and you said it isn’t. What did you mean?

“Poopy butt.”

And…?

"He said poopy butt!"

Good Donald, but I'm talking to Karl now. Karl...

“I don’t like Mr. Wilson?”

Okay, that’s a start. Why don’t you like Mr. Wilson?

“He goes away.”

And…?

“He goes away and when he comes back he says something stupid. Well, fuck him. Fuck him and all of his goddamn snooty elitist…”

Karl. You’re mad at Mr. Wilson?

“He is a booger mouth.”

Condi, I was talking to Karl. Please don’t interrupt.

“Kiss my...”

Condi, you’ve been told twice today. Once more and I will call your parents. Do you understand?

“Condi touched her butt hole.”

George. Do not talk that way. Now, Karl, you didn’t like what Mr. Wilson did and you were mad, weren’t you?

(sucking sound)

And then you and Scooter…

“He’s not here.”

That’s okay. You and Scooter and Dick and some of the other children conspired to out a covert operative as part of a plan to punish someone whose professional legitimacy threatened your version of the reasons to go to war, isn’t that right?

“My knobby hurts.”

George, stop pulling at it. Now listen very, very carefully, all of you: we live in a Republic, and what holds this Republic together is respect for law…Karl, stop giggling. We are a team who may disagree about how to play but must agree to the rules of what’s allowed and what isn’t when we do play.

“I threw the ball and hit him.”

Very good, Dick. Yes you did.

“And then I kicked him and I clutched my chest in horror.”

Did your stent come out again?

“No, it’s okay (sighs).”

I’m almost done. We can’t just break the rules and put the group at risk because we want to. And we can’t ask others to abide by rules if we just flout them whenever it serves our purposes.

“We could for a little while.”

Yes, Karl, but it was wrong, and now the whole administration is in trouble, because where you sought to harm another you harmed yourselves. Do you see?

“I made a Hershey bar!”

No, George, you didn’t.

“Who are those big men?”

Those are police officers. Play time is over, I fear. Put the toys back and gather up your notebooks, papers and books. You will leave with the officers, and you can never come back here. Dick, stop clutching at your chest.

“You sure are pretty. I never knew the Statue of Liberty was so pretty!”

AND THEN JESUS SAID "MY BAD"

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Jesus Christ, eponymous leader of every single Christian denomination ever, has officially apologized for having been crucified by the Romans some two thousand years ago. "Next time I will be more careful," said Jesus, while answering questions on his way to a new Universe that Jesus claims has a better sense of humor and "...none of those 'compact' parking lots, where you can barely open your door without hitting the car next to you. It's like we're all sardines or something. Well, not literal sardines. Metaphorical sardines. Whatever."

Visiting Aliens "Uneasy" With Alito Nomination

Visiting aliens seen relaxing after visit to spa for massages and group waxing

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(Jivester News, Lmtd.) In response to the Senate's questioning of Supreme Court nominee Samuel Alito, and concerned by the potential for Female Reproductive Coercement by the Government of the United States of America, visiting aliens from Dildonvulvia released a statement warning Earthlings to "keep their mitts out of our pudendas."

Samuel Alito, his head tilted to one side while draining fluids from 1985 out of his ears, declined to comment as to this new intergalactic development in regards to his nomination. "Those look like rocks, or sculptures. You could maybe get them to produce pebbles, but never babies. If they were in fact reproductive organs, and were in the United States, I would be inclined to dodge this question, in a vague yet dignified way."

The Aliens were originally here to attend an adult entertainment industry expo in Las Vegas--the largest pornography convention in the world, but a "mere penny carnival in a minor galactic backwater" according to the Dildonvulvians. These firm yet sensual visitors held a press conference as part of an effort to be seen as more than "Triple X-Files paperweights" and to make public their opinions regarding the affairs of the so-called "skin bags" i.e. Human Beings.

As to the question of whether or not the government of a free people can claim sovereignty over the reproductive organs of its citizens, based on a concern for the sacred life-rights of the unborn to the exclusion of the woman's right to own and operate her own body as she sees fit, the Dildonvulvians shook what appeared to be their heads and sighed. "Is your wife's womb my concern, or to be managed by my dictates? If it is, what about her fallopian tubes? Cervix? Vaginal canal? Clitoris? I better stop, I'm getting hard. Wait, I'm always hard...the point is, when the State begins to legislate its female citizens reproductive organs, a slippery slope occurs. Hey, that's funny...slippery slope. I just can't help it. I never met a pun I didn't..."

A female alien interrupted her co-alien's odd monologue with the following statement: "Wealthy people will continue to have access to safe abortions when and if Roe vs. Wade is overturned. Poor women will be at the mercy of an abortion market that will rise up if legal, safe abortions are ended in the United States. No one celebrates abortion, but when it comes to private medical decisions between a woman and her physician, the State should defer to the rights of the woman, as protected by the Constitution of the United States. End of story. I should hope that all concerned women get in front of a mirror, look at the image of their vagina as reflected therein, and decide if what they are looking at is their property or the property of the United States, up to and including their ovaries and uterus. Personally, I would insist that the government keep its mitts out of our pudendas. Now if you will excuse us we are off to a boulder seminar at the north rim of the Grand Canyon. Thank you, and good luck to your entire country as it continues to face the challenges of surviving as a democratic construct."

Wolf Blitzer, upon hearing the female Dildonvulvian's statement, reminded listeners that Bush is King of Iraq.

President Wipes His Ass With Constitution: "Smells Like Butt-Victory"

President Bush's Second Term in Full Swing!

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(Jivester News, Lmtd.) President George W. Bush, rumored to be high on a combination of metamucil and bacon fat, held a press conference late this evening while taking a dump on the Oval Throne. What transpired will no doubt be of interest to historians in the years to come (if there are any years to come): President Bush, unable to contain his own maniacal glee, bore down and squeezed out his dirty little business, then wiped his ass with a copy of the U.S. Constitution and "dared anyone with more than a two inch dick to stop me!" What prompted this rare fecal-related outburst appears to have been a question from an embarrassingly sober AP reporter who asked "Since you can evacuate your bowels without giving aid, comfort and green stamps to the terrorists, why can't you just as effectively evacuate our troops from the bowels of Iraq?"

The President addressed these ill-formed, splatteresque concerns when he spoke about the need for "solid strategies" and "true soldiers aren't cut and runny." No one knew what the hell he was talking about, except James Guckert nee Jeff "I-Will-Fuck-You-For-Money" Gannon, who was wearing a Lemmiwinks costume and smelled like, well, like ass.

"Take your Bill of Rights," exclaimed Bush, but since it was abundantly obvious he had just wiped his sphincter with them none of the assembled reporters did. Take them, that is. "See, the Constitution is meant to give us a clean slate, a brand-spankin' new sparkly meat-hole," continued Bush as members of the press took notes and were greatful for the access, because good journalism is all that matters. "What America needs is for the President to wipe his ass with the Constitution. Wipe his ass good. And then wave it around, and tell everybody how he wipes his ass with the Constitution. Hey, look," the President continued, "I had corn last night. What do you think of that, founding fathers? I got your checks and balances right here! I got your so-called Rule of Law too: when the Prez wipes his patootie, that is the Rule of Law! Amen!" Bush then jumped off of his porcelain throne and began making jungle noises, running around the executive bathroom like a baboon on crack, a whoopin' and a hollerin'!

One timorous voice rose from the gathered reporters: "Sir, would you ever wipe your ass with the Ten Commandments?" A hush, an absolute shiver-me-colon hush descended on the room. Bush turned slowly to the offending scriber, caught the reporter in the laser beam of an actual laserpointer he had taken out of his shirt pocket, then said with a barely concealed guffaw tricklin' out of the corners of his yapper, "Why, that would be sacreligious. Hell, I ain't no God hater!" The whole room exhaled a big sigh of relief: being reassured that Bush doesn't hate God put everyone at ease. Except God, who took a huge shit and sent it onto the White House roof, where it froze during the latest ice storm, so that the domicilic Ground Zero for the King and Queen of America looks like it's covered by a really bad haircut. Shame on God! Bad God! Bad!

Voices Inside the Head of President Bush Are Caucasian, Press Secretary Reassures Base

Artist's rendition of one of the voices echoing endlessly in the folds of George Bush's brain.

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(Jivester News, Lmtd.) Scott McClellan told White House reporters today that the voices President George W. Bush hears in his head are "...most assuredly Caucasian in nature. We are very certain about that. Good, strong conservative Caucasian voices." Helen Thomas, who just plain refuses to die, asked McClellan if the voices in the President's head were involved in any of the Plamegate leaks that have plagued the White House, and then asked a follow-up question about whether any of the voices would be pardoned if they had indeed participated in the leak case.

McClellan: ... is tantamount to killing Christian babies by smashing their heads with hardback copies of the Koran.

(stunned silence, then "fuck you, asshole" and "eat me" from the assembled reporters)

McClellan: And I'd appreciate it if you guys wouldn't go digging around in the White House basement. Those bodies, the bodies that are there, were probably put there by Clinton and his predator bride (sic) even, and I do mean even, if they look pretty fresh.

Dr. Lawrence D. Tabernacle of the Southern Christian Effigy Commission on Race Baiting said, "It's a tempest in a brain stem, if you ask me. The President is very comfortable with people of color, but not in his head, which is already rather busy with an assortment of characters, voices and sound effects." When asked what he was talking about, especially the part about the "sound effects," Dr. Tabernacle made a "yummy" sound and began licking his fingers. Seriously, he just started licking his fingers, as if that was some sort of an answer. Talk about losing cred, eh Dr.?

Recordings of the voices that are in Bush's head will be made available to donors who contribute "mightily" to the Keep Bush From Completely Losing It In a Way That His Fundie Supporters Might Actually Notice Fund. Interested donors are asked to go see Ken Mehlman and make a kissy face. He'll understand. He might not get it right away, not at first, but he will eventually understand. He always has.

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John Wayne Gacy artwork image from here. But be careful if you go there. Just saying.

Karl Rove to Star in New Gilbert & Sullivan Opera

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From "The Pissants of Pennsylvania Avenue"

Third Act, Scene 4

Day Room, the White House--Condi lies on her back on The Big Desk, Andy Card is passed out, George is hiding underneath the carpet, Ken Mehlman is busy in the upper-stage-right corner trying to get Scooter to sniff his armpits through his shirt. Various staff members are dressed as Hessians and Samurai.

Karl Rove enters the inner circle, carrying a large sword, which he plays with as he instructs those in attendance how best to deal with an inconsequential issue concerning treason...

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(KARL)We aim to be convivialBut treason is so trivialMust we go remedial?Perjury’s not a crime

The Times? They’re not a changingJust the facts are rearrangingLike when Peking became BeijingLet’s not spell it out too fine

There never was a perilUntil this guy FitzgeraldBecame some kind of feralSour grape upon the vine

The goose is not the ganderDon’t get your feathers in a danderStay on point, do not meanderSay it firmly, do not whine:

(chorus--ALL)Nothing ever happened—nothing ever doesNothing to discover, in the “now” or in the “was”So and so may have said this and that or thusThe truth shall set you free, my friendBut it's me you have to trustThe truth shall set you free, my friendBut it's me you have to trust

(KARL)If you work in GovernmentAnd your boss was Heaven SentYou know indeed who pays your rentIt’s not the Working Class

Quid pro quo and tit for tatThe leakers on the nation shatBut we are not to go judge thatOur House is made of glass

A blow job means impeachmentThe perjury? AppeasementA way to get an easementAcross the White House grass

But now with agents outedWe are safe, do not doubt itNo one dared from rooftops shouted:“This conspiracy is vast!”

(chorus)Nothing ever happened—nothing ever doesNothing to discover, in the “now” or in the “was”So and so may have said this and that or thusThe truth shall set you free, my friendBut it's me you have to trustThe truth shall set you free, my friendBut it's me you have to trust

(KARL)Make betrayal the new sensationThat will sweep across the nationLet’s turn in all the agentsAh, I preach unto the choir...

The law is so persnicketyIts foundations are quite ricketyThe clock it goes tock-ticketyWe are coming to the wire!

It’s time to end the intrigueSpying brings us only fatigueLet’s give all the agents new gigsPut their old ones on the pyre

Remember: there’s no story hereNothing matters, nothing, dearIf you oppose us then you’re queerBest to help us build the fire!

(chorus)Nothing ever happened—nothing ever doesNothing to discover, in the “now” or in the “was”So and so may have said this and that or thusThe truth shall set you free, my friendBut it's me you have to trustThe truth shall set you free, my friendBut it's me you have to trust

The Madness of King George

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President Thinks He’s President, Meds Adjusted For Inflation

(Jivester News, Lmtd.) George W. Bush, the 43rd President of the United States of America, told a young boy who stood in line at a DC area mall (hoping to buy a new Xbox) that he was “...President of the country” and "My birthday is in July." Onlookers pleaded with Secret Service bodyguards to lead Bush over to the food court, where he could be fed in a manner that wouldn't bother other mall shoppers, who can in turn be shameless in their collective staring and whispering. Bush, who hardly drooled at all, appeared to be fixated upon the boy, yelling as he was escorted to the Orange Julius, “He’ll grow up and fight for God. Perils shall rain upon him, pull him into the dark corners, among the filth and dung heaps, and evil will be his hair.”

This was just the latest in a series of incidents where the Leader of the Free World has taken it upon himself to puncture the air with his “Go It Alone” sermons, many of which have been performed impromptu as he escapes his “handlers” and races to what he calls the “Golden Doors to Nimrod.” During his recent visit to China, just out of earshot of the camera crews, Bush sang snippets of ribald fraternity songs while attempting to pee on his shoes. Vice-President Dick Cheney, rumored to have feelings, has refused to walk with George to the market, muttering “Stupid kid. Everybody stares at us. I hate going to the store with him.”

Some critics of sanity have dismissed the latest speculations about the President's abilities to lead the nation. Fergus N. Klegrauber, speaking on condition of anonymity, noted that "...Bush no longer hears voices in his head." Klegrauber continued with "While it is true the President now hears voices coming from his clothing, his fingers and certain varieties of breakfast cereals, he at least doesn't seem unduly impressed with those voices' opinions." Klegrauber then rolled his eyes and made a whirling motion with his right forefinger, as if to negate everything he was saying. He was later taken outside and shot.

It turns out Americans need not waste time thinking about this subject: there is no mechanism in place to remove a whacko president from office. We made our bed, and we should bleed to death in it.

Is the President crazy? Has he become a loon? Are the inner workings of his brain a synaptic fireworks display of brimstone and pinwheels on a field littered with empty flasks and pom poms? Careening bottle rockets and star bursts against a crimson sky? Has “The Coddled One” encountered locked doors at every exit of his mind, and now circles endlessly about, searching for an escape from the scarred landscape that is his core identity? Who cares? As long as Big Oil gets permanent American military bases in Iraq...

The great proof of madness is the disproportion of one's designs to one's means.Napoleon Bonaparte

Democratic Talking Point Oracle Back From Oblivion

Talking Point Oracle Manifestation #1

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NOTE: I am in the process of reposting here some of my entries at Correntewire. Why not?

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The Democratic Talking Point Oracle, missing since 1998, has reappeared and is ready to commence with his "oracalizing" once again. I spoke with the Oracle early this morning before collapsing upon the rocky flat of an abandoned quarry in Hollywood. I think it was the burning light of an unadorned Talking Point, a direct and un-muddled directive, that caused my collapse, but I did manage to make a few notes before the day turned to night, and dreams washed away the dust and worry of a world gone ballistic.

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I was walking up the path leading to Bronson Cave with my dog Chauncy when I spied a luminous apparition just above the main caves. I managed to take one didge picture before I was bodily lifted (and Chauncy was bodily panting next to me) and deposited at some place out of time but at the base of the Great Democratic Talking Point Oracle (GDTPO), which came as a shock to me. I thought he was only a legend, a rumor, a Real Estate salesman. He spoke, I listened, Chauncy yawned.

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GDTPO: What do you think of the caves?

MJS: Love 'em. Been coming up here since the early 80's.

GDTPO: I wasn't talking to you.

MJS: Oh.

CHAUNCY: Heh, heh.

GDTPO: Exactly. This was a quarry at one time, which was blasted and mined and finally abandoned, leaving these small caves behind.

(long boring pause,followed by...)

GDTPO: I came here in 1998 and was about to leave when I stumbled on a rock and fell into...into...what's the word?

MJS: An abyss?

CHAUNCY: Squirrel?

GDTPO: Yes, I fell into a squirrel, and was transported into the Vaulted Sky and was no more.

(short pause)

GDTPO: But now I'm back and am ready to give out verbal gems and poetic issuances, the better to guide the mewling mobs of inchoate Democrats to the land of Majority Office Holders.

CHAUNCY: Inchoate?

GDTPO: Yes. Chaotic, newly and/or imperfectly formed or developed.

CHAUNCY: Are you going to take that from him?

MJS: Look, he's apparently an oracle. If he wants to use inchoate when an easier to understand and more precise word, such as chaotic or incohesive, would do, well, that's his...

GDTPO: I haven't got all day, people.

CHAUNCY: Proceed.

GDTPO: I will hereforth issue easy to understand and coherent Talking Points, which you, MJS (if those are your real fake initials) will relay to the proper...the proper...eh, help me out here.

CHAUNCY: Dogs?

MJS: Interested parties, blog readers, members of the blog community, democrats and free-thinking, Constitution-defending people and their ilk?

GDTPO: Dogs it is.

(Chauncy gives me an "I told you so" look, but he's very cute so I let it go)

GDTPO: Talking Point of the Day:

(the sky swept into swirling clouds, rain bedashed our features, a lake of burning fire rose, some tourists squealed, the Oracle batted his eyes, and then came His Words...)

GDTPO: In the Matter of World Religions, and of the Three Monotheistic Traditions out of the Middle East: if a religion seeks no harm, if the better angels of our nature are invoked to feed the poor, make well the sick, embrace the devastated, and guide the self to love for all, well, the Democratic Party says 'Hello to all that.' But if those who would lead their followers invoke threats, violence, hatred, misdirections: if those who would lead their flocks ignore the destruction of the earth, the weakening of the family through unfair wages and practices, if a Person of Faith speaks of Eden but builds the Foundations of Hell here on the Earth, they will be called to task! Pat Roberston: you are a violation of the Prince of Peace! Osama bin Laden: To merely become the worst parts of your enemy is not victory! Lastly, to Jonah Goldberg: the Dry Cleaner called and says your doughy pantloaded pants are once again immaculate!

MJS: Is there a shorter version?

CHAUNCY: Yeah, something snappy and to the point?

GDTPO: Of for...yes. Here is the talking point (condensed): Those who would speak of Paradise, who by their actions destroy the only life we know, who set their flocks to hatred and violence and fear, must be called to account. Never shrink from the duty of the Body Politic to protect the rights and the lands of all, not just a fevered group. Never shrink from disabusing the demagogues of their self-righteous venom! If their God is not a God of Peace, Compasssion and the Wisdom of Reason then such a God is no God of Democracy.

MJS: That's it: you come out of wherever you were and your first Talking Point is how to have an easy to understand and consistent position on the abuses of belief, faith and religion?

GDTPO: You catch on quick, Jivester. Until the next Talking Point, adieu!

Then the sky vanished, and the Earth rushed up and I fell hard upon the ground, and my nose hurt. Chauncy lay next to me and rolled his eyes. Smart ass.